


Sublimation Point

by die_traumerei



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Mention of injuries, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky gets injured on an away mission, Steve rescues him, they conveniently have several hours in a tent before extraction arrives. You can guess what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sublimation Point

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little amuse bouche to get me used to writing these two again. It's by-the-book hurt/comfort, and it was so much fun to write you don't even know.
> 
> The sublimation point of water is, of course, the point in which it moves from ice to steam (well, vapour) without transitioning through liquid water first.

The night was clear, and bitterly cold. There wasn't snow, though, which somehow made it worse; no soft moonlight reflecting off of a world made muffled and quiet, none of that. Everything was hard, puddles that had frozen solid and bare-branched trees that creaked in the wind and not a single other living creature. A frigid wind whipped through the scrubby land, and the full moon rose overhead, and Bucky Barnes slowly froze to death.

He'd frozen before, of course. But there had been snow then. Red blood stood out bright on it, from what had been left of his arm. And, after, there had been cold, clean laboratories and the metal capsules and a quick freeze, a quick (but not quick enough) thaw. There had been winter in between, too. Bucky remembered summers, of course, but the Russian winter is not one easily forgotten, and it had seemed to always be winter for years there.

(Always winter, never Christmas. A light, childlike way to explain. It sufficed.)

Now he was freezing slowly, and the blood from the gash in his side was seeping into the earth, disappearing as soon as it oozed between his fingers. He'd dragged himself into something like cover, a big oak tree that grew between two boulders, cover reached far too late. He had taped the wound on his forehead, ignored the ankle that was probably broken, and could only hold onto the wide wound across his ribs, dipping down to his waist, cutting deep. He was going to die like this, but at least he could die sitting up. He could die fighting, trying to hold on. No one was coming of course – they'd carefully masked anything that could send a signal, like his arm – made sure he was un-findable. By everyone, except that the assholes had found him and played with him and now he was going to die, and Steve Rogers was going to burn all of A.I.M. to the ground. 

Oh, Steve. Bucky was going to miss Steve. There was a letter for him – they had both written letters, sealed, just in case – and he had all of Bucky's stuff now, and he had a team to help him when Bucky didn't return. Maybe they'd find his body someday, and Steve could get a little closure that way. They both knew death was possible in this line of work, and Bucky hoped Steve could find comfort in a death that was well-earned, in a death that wasn't going to be too bad.

It really wasn't, he thought, eyes slipping shut, sticky with the blood across his face. It was kind of warm, actually. He didn't remember this heat before, like falling asleep on a summer day, making his limbs heavy. Yeah, this wasn't a bad way to die at all.

 

Bucky Barnes was not in heaven.

Heaven definitely did not smell like two men in a tent, and blood, and heaven didn't...okay, possibly heaven did mean he was vaguely aware of pain, but didn't much care about it. But he was pretty sure that heaven had not worked out a vicodin dosage that worked with his metabolism, which meant he hadn't died, which meant--

“Shit.”

“Yeah, that was what I said too,” Steve said grimly, and Bucky opened his eyes cautiously. They were in a tiny silver tent, so low that Steve's head brushed the top where he sat up, ramrod-straight. Bucky was stretched out on something soft, a heavy blanket that radiated heat covering his body. It was cozy in the little tent, which meant he'd been there a long time.

“How bad?”

“You're lucky that synth-blood works on us.” Steve's face was pinched, and he cracked his knuckles. “And that it can survive a daylong hike through this godforsaken place.”

Bucky winced. “Sorry?”

“You broke your ankle, but it's not serious. Nice headwound too.”

Bucky put a hand up and touched bandages on his forehead. He felt his side pull a little, but no real pain. Not worth remarking on.

“Oh, yeah. And your heartbeat stopped while I was putting the tent up,” Steve said, voice even and dry and Bucky was so fucked.

“I took a dozen of 'em with me, Steve.”

“No!” Steve punched the ground, and Bucky winced. “No, you didn't, because you didn't die.”

“No, I didn't,” Bucky said softly. “I didn't, Steve.”

“Another few minutes...” Steve shuddered, and winced, and rubbed his knuckles. “Don't give me that look.”

“I will give you any look I fucking well please, Rogers. See how you like it from that side of things,” Bucky said, more roughly than he meant to.

Steve winced, and Bucky was instantly sorry, because Steve Rogers was a fucking manipulative bastard and Bucky would personally strangle anyone who made him the slightest bit unhappy.

Well, maybe. A little taste of watching someone he loved lying there hurt might cause Steve to think for a moment, next time.

(Who the fuck was Bucky kidding? They didn't think, either of them.)

All the same. Bucky reached out, glad the metal in his arm absorbed heat so well, glad he could touch Steve and have it be comforting. “Hey,” he said softly. “It's gonna be okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Steve took a deep breath. “I activated a homing beacon as soon as I found you, but it might take some time to find us. We've got food and water for a week.” He paused, and smiled. “And heavy medication.”

“Thank God,” Bucky said, and meant it. Modern painkillers were the best thing, and he saw no need to suffer needlessly from so much as a headache.

Steve smiled, and touched his forehead, just barely ruffling his hair. “One to ten, Buck.”

“One,” Bucky assured him. “Maybe a two. I know I'm hurt but...” he shrugged, carefully. “You okay?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” Steve leaned over and kissed Bucky's cheek. “You'll be back home in a few hours, by the way. I just, uh, might have been very generous in my packing.

Bucky grinned, and shifted carefully. If he was slow, he could ease himself over, and make a little room on the mattress.

“Oh good Christ, Buck.”

“When was the last time we had a few hours free?” Bucky whined. “I'm not that bad anymore, after you fixed me up.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “And I know you'll be gentle.”

“Mother of Jesus.” Not that that stopped Steve from stripping off his uniform in record time, and crawling under the heavy heated blanket. He was still wearing briefs and an undershirt, though, much to Bucky's vocal dismay. 

“Shut up,” Steve informed him, and shifted them so that Bucky's head was pillowed on his chest, and Steve's arms wrapped around him. And he was, as Bucky predicted, very gentle indeed. “Check in with me.”

“I'm okay. I've almost frozen to death before, you know.”

“Mmm. That's why I want a check-in,” Steve said.

“That's why I don't,” Bucky said, more than willing to out-stubborn him. He could, too. He believed in himself. “Steve, if I think too hard, I will have a really Grade-A freak-out. A tiny tent in the middle of nowhere is not the place for that, not right now. Get your hands on me and kiss me good and let's get each other off, please.”

Steve chuckled softly. “And they say romance is dead. I understand, Bucky.” He leaned over and brushed a soft kiss to Bucky's mouth, barely making contact. “Gonna be gentle with you, though.”

Bucky made a whining noise and pushed closer. “'m not made of fucking glass, Rogers.”

“I know,” Steve murmured. “I know exactly how tough you are.” He knuckled Bucky's head gently – not where the bandage was. “I stitched your ass back together.”

Bucky flushed, and wrapped his arm around Steve, kissing him hard. “Sorry. Glad it was you, though.”

“Yeah, Thor's a terrible seamstress,” Steve deadpanned, but he also kissed Bucky back, so that was all right.

Steve had thoughtfully already removed all of Bucky's clothes, and Bucky took great joy in stripping his lover down. He had tried sitting up and found it didn't suit (and ignored the way Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky and lowered him back down, fussing to make sure nothing had opened up, because Bucky was totally one hundred percent okay with being loved by Steve Rogers but sometimes having that whole huge heart focused on him – well, it was a little too much to bear, was all), but they could make out just fine like this. Bucky was stuck on his back and Steve lay on his side, just caressing, easy and sweet for the moment.

And just for that moment. Bucky trailed his hand down Steve's chest, shamelessly caressing him, tracing the outlines of the muscles there, fingertips finding the ridges of his stomach, the cut of his hip, and finally, with speed and no fanfare, the hard curve of his cock.

“Hello there,” Bucky murmured.

“Fuck you,” Steve sighed, arching his hips and making a happy sound when Bucky started moving his hand. 

“Yes, please,” Bucky said, and leered when Steve glared at him. “Oh, c'mon.”

Steve grinned, and wiggled his hips. “Maybe when you're better.”

“Maybe?” Bucky started moving his hand again, smooth motions of his wrist.

“Maybe.” Steve leaned in and kissed the words out of his head. Bucky always lost his mind a little bit, when Steve kissed him, and none more so than now when he lay warm and protected, Steve's big body over him, just kissing because he was holding himself up, not resting his weight on Bucky.

Bucky gave a little whine when he realized that, but it accomplished nothing and he gave up when Steve began to trail kisses down his face, suckling lightly at the soft skin just below his ear. Bucky started moving his hand again, stroking his lover's cock, just playing at first to see what sounds he could get Steve to make.

Soft, hitching ones, apparently. Little noises that meant Steve stopped kissing and hid his face in Bucky's neck, his hips rolling, meeting Bucky's hand. This was terrible – he was so much more talented than a quick hand-job, but it would have to do for now, and Steve didn't seem like he was complaining, the way he was rutting against Bucky now, those big hands curling into fists. He forgot himself enough to rest against Bucky, heavy and warm and just slightly sheened with sweat as he cried out and came.

Bucky wiped his hand on Steve's briefs because they were nearby, and also because they were Steve's, and he'd probably get a good reaction out of it later. And then, biting down on a hiss of pain, he wrapped his arms around Steve and kissed him back to himself.

“I swear to God if you opened up that gash in your side,” Steve mumbled against Bucky's mouth, hand caressing his waist, the side that wasn't hurt. 

“'s fine. The scar will just blend in.” He had enough on his left side, what was one more on his ribs?

“My beautiful guy,” Steve said, and the fucker meant it, and Bucky loved him for it. He rested on the air mattress and graciously let Steve kiss him, trailing his mouth down Bucky's body, still holding himself carefully up so that, other than his mouth, only his hands touched Bucky, thumbs rubbing on his shoulders. Little nudges from Steve's nose tickled the scars that joined metal and flesh; that was the first place Steve had ever kissed him, even before he'd found Bucky's mouth.

They shifted together, careful of the gash that had, in fact, opened back up (just seeping this time, and barely that), careful of Bucky's right ankle, splinted in an air cast that even Steve could manage. Moving little by little, Steve wound up between Bucky's legs, hands on his waist now, mouth kissing the ridges of his stomach, lower, and oh, oh, even the effects of the painkillers couldn't stand up to that, to the heat and skill and, yes, all right, the love in the way Steve held him and took care of him and Bucky was a little glad that it took so long. The vicodin was burning out of his system, but it meant he could float in pleasure while Steve sucked him into hardness, then finished him off.

He dozed like he usually did, although this time Steve didn't make fun of him for being lazy. Bucky missed it a little, although he guessed that things had been bad enough that a little laziness was allowable. (He firmly believed a little sloth was always okay, but Captain Early Riser disagreed.)

Bucky made an unhappy little sound when Steve had finished moving him to lie in the center of the mattress, making sure he was warm and covered.

“Shhh. We'll be home soon, in a bed we can both fit into,” Steve soothed, leaning over to kiss him.

“Soon isn't now.” Bucky opened his eyes though, and smiled. “Hey. Love you.”

“Love you too. By the way, I stole your briefs,” Steve said, and grinned at the dirty look Bucky gave him. “Shut up. One of us is expected to be decent when rescue arrives.”

“No you're not,” Bucky said, letting his eyes slip closed again. It was so nice and warm here, and Steve had given him something again, and all the pain was far away. “They know exactly what we're doing.”

“One of us has to at least attempt some class,” Steve offered, and Bucky laughed, and let himself drift off. He'd wake up and be home, and if he had to stay in bed a day or two, well, he wouldn't be alone there.


End file.
